Puella Magi Schuetze Aurulent
by Biigoh
Summary: Wishes are wonderful things. Wishes make the world go round. After all, are they not made of hopes and dreams? Let us visit a world where wishes are made by various maidens. *Beware of spoilers for Fate/zero*.
1. Like fire for boiling tea

Sometimes, fate never works the way people expect it to.

Sometimes, the dragon does win.

But for someone like Akemi Homura, that just meant that she had to try again. That one battlefield lost to her nemesis and worse nightmares just meant that she had a new battlefield to battle upon. One where she merely had to apply everything that she had learned to it.

Over and over again.

She would no longer cry. She would no longer need the help of others.

This was a road that only she could walk. That she would walk. Over and over 'til she attained what she desired.

It would be... easy to simply give up. To give in and wander off into the woods, most dark, lovely and deep; the wood was made of curses, rage and despair, after all.

Ah, to become a witch was easy. It merely required her to surrender. But she had promises to keep. And miles to go before she could sleep.

Miles upon miles. And months piled upon months. She had all of eternity in the span of a month to traverse.

For her friend. Her only friend. The only one who believed in her. Who had stood by her despite not knowing.

Not remembering what they had done together. Never to remember.

The laughter that they had shared.

The friendship that they had formed once, twice, thrice... and so many more times than she could count.

The freely given kindness over and over.

The tears they had shed.

The agony of being on the edge of descent into witchdom.

For Kaname Madoka, Akemi Homura would do anything and everything.

Would cover her hands with the blood of Incubator, in the blood and shattered soulgems of other magical girls, and in the darkness and grief of slain witches.

This, she had vowed to herself.

Repeated it like a mantra. It was all she had left.

"She was really amazing... when she transformed." The words spoken by the white cat thing washed over her.

"I thought she would become the strongest magical girl, but to defeat the Walpurgis Night in just one hit..." Had Madoka always being that strong or had her wish being somehow sufficient to allow her greater access to what lay within her. Homura remembered fighting Walpurgis Night countless times with Madoka, they had struggled. Paid in blood and tears to bring it down before.

"And how will this end? If she's even stronger than you thought." The raven haired magical girl's voice spoke up in response to the Incubator. She knew it wouldn't lie, misdirect yes, but never an actual lie.

"Either way, her end will be the same. As the strongest magical girl, she defeated her greatest enemy." Homura could hear the whistling wind as she heard the absolute confidence in the other survivor of Walpurgis Night's rampage and subsequent death. It certainly fit the desolate mood and the grief in her heart.

"Now there's nothing left for her but to become the most evil witch ever. As Madoka is now, it will take ten days before she destroys this world." The carefree manner that alien spoke of humanity's extinction and of what Madoka had become certainly fit with the way it didn't seem to care, or feel emotions.

If she could, she would end it.

But killing it hadn't ended the Incubator. It had returned with time, but then she hadn't found anything like a soul-gem in its body or near it... Homura didn't quite shake her head, she should have known. With the way it had spoken of the bodies of magical girls as being 'mere' hardware. One that performed to specifications and could be repaired as easily as machines.

Not untrue to be certain. Hadn't she done just that with her eyes?

"But well, that's not my problem. I gathered alot more energy than our collection quota," Homura would have thought it would have sounded happier or cheerful at that, but that tone of voice... that same carefree manner that it spoke in... emotions truly were something alien to it.

Homura stood up as it spoke. She didn't need to hear more. This was, after all, a lost battlefield. Her goals had been lost when Madoka had been tricked into making a wish.

She would walk to the next one. And if it was lost, there would be another one. There would always be... another battlefield.

An eternity in the span of a month.

"Won't you fight?" No need to waste energy. No need to rage against that puzzled alien. Or the impossible giant witch that had been Madoka.

"No, this is not my battlefield." Indeed, it wasn't hers. Not any more.

And so she walked off once more, transversing the path forged by her spinning shield and the hourglass that lay at its heart, amidst gears and clockwork mechanisms.

Perhaps if she had stayed... she might have seen the departure of QB. And the world attempt to fight back against the encroachment upon its domain.

Perhaps, she might have noted the unseen, unknowable figures lost to time and history. Trapped by their choices, by their own bargains.

Perhaps, she might have cared to watch the futility as those guardians fought for humanity. With weapons beyond compare, with powers that were conceptual and fueled by the magic of the world.

But then... perhaps, she might observe them fall one by one as the encroachment of Kriemhild Gretchen's barrier grew. Their attacks simply striking harmlessly upon its surface.

Their bodies and souls crushed into non-existence as the boundaries of the witch's barrier expanded past their positions. Their very natures spawned from misfortune and the regrets that lay in their soul anathemic to the paradise that was the promise and gift from the witch of salvation.

Perhaps, she might have cared to know that the world would attempt to defend itself.

But such knowledge would have been useless and pointless to her. For her goal wasn't the defense of the world or such conceits that might come of desiring to be a hero.

She was no hero.

Just a friend.

A friend who would break herself for the sake of one who she valued above all else.

* * *

><p><strong>Puella Magi Schuetze Aurulent<strong>

_Prologue : A tragic beginning is like fire for boiling tea._

* * *

><p>And then one day, her friend broke the world to save her.<p>

_Don't forget._  
><em>Always, somewhere,<em>  
><em>someone is fighting for you.<em>  
><em>As long as you remember her,<em>  
><em>you are not alone.<em>


	2. Birth by fire

Once upon a time, Tomoe Mami believed in magic.

Well, she still did. But now she KNEW it existed. And knowledge didn't equal belief, at least not truly.

Once upon a time, Tomoe Mami had a happy family. She had her father, her mother, and the little brat of a younger brother.

A fairy tale existence. One where things were, if not ideal, at least good.

But that was before that day. Where the light of daybreak turned to darkest night as a black sun rose into the heavens, before transforming back into day of a sort by virtue of the light from explosions and fire.

The day that started as a vacation as the Tomoe family prepared to visited Mami's grandmother, to reassure her that despite the... odd happenings in the city, that they were doing fine.

The scream of jets and explosions in the darkness before dawn had awoken everyone.

Which was why they had been driving out of the city when the black sun rose. A circle that radiated not light, nor darkness, but an anti-light that consumed everything in its path as liquid poured from it. Perhaps gushed would have been a better word, gushing as blood congealed to the thickness of black ichor or mud.

A wound in the world. A hole in reality. A schism to that which should never be and which lay outside of all that was sane and human conceptualization.

It was here that Mami remembered things becoming disjointed.

The family car jumping like a cat.

The screeching of metal upon metal, as plastic and synthetic materials gave way.

A truck framed against the light of the fire that spread from the heart of Fuyuki city.

And then there was heat... and a coldness that slowly spread. She didn't feel pain, but then she didn't feel much of anything as she gestured at the light outside, pleading for help.

To be saved. To have her existence continued.

She tried not to look at where her parents had been, seated at the front of the car. Nor the empty seat beside her where her brother had been.

The blonde girl couldn't recall what happened to the brat. She could remember that he had been playing with his lego toys, building some sort of space ship. There had also been hushed voices, filled with fear and concern, from the front as the car headed out of the city and she looked back at the black sun rising.

That was when she met it.

Kyuubey, the messenger of magic, granter of wishes and the maker of magical girls.

Her wish had been simple. She didn't want to die.

She refused to die.

And so, she didn't.

Once upon a time, Tomoe Mami believed in magic.

Now she was magic, it pervaded her existence. It sustained her, as she wielded it to hunt. To fight. To kill.

The world she dwelled in now wasn't one of common sense, or such things as 'logic' that normal humans knew.

But then that was fine, she wasn't human.

Not anymore.

Even the... not quite humans with their magic didn't consider her or her kind human. And she had run into a number of those.

Daemon girl.

Magical girl.

Puella Magi.

It didn't matter what people called her. What mattered was that she existed.

That she lived. Ever unchanging. Ever the same as the world evolved around her.

A pitiful existence such as hers was still better than being dead.

* * *

><p><strong>Puella Magi Schuetze Aurulent<strong>

_Part 1 : Birth by Fire_

* * *

><p>Then one day, she made a friend...<p>

The friendship didn't lasted. But she did make a friend. That friendship left a taste in her mouth, a desire to no longer be alone.

So, she tried to make more friends. And she did.

But friendship made her careless. And Tomoe Mami fell.

And in falling, died.

Against the Witch of Witches, Walpurgisnacht.

At the hands of her friend, when her world was broken by the maddening light of truth.

Against the Witch of Dessert, Charlotte.

Died in countless myriad ways.

And then... one day, the world broke and... she didn't die when she was killed. Because a friend remembered her, counted on her. Looked up to her.

She died and didn't die, but that was fine by her. For in the new world that she existed in, she could and did make friends.

She was no longer alone.

Now her existence was no longer pitiful as it had been when she struggled alone.

Because for Tomoe Mami, friendship was magic.


	3. Anger is like fire

Once there was a king, brave and valiant, firm and unyielding. Said to be a brilliant strategist and a hero beyond compare.

A king of knights, as it were, for that king led loyal and faithful knights into battle at the front of armies.

He had a daughter. In actuality, many daughters.

Each and every one of them from different women that he had bedded. Some of them were camp followers who trailed behind his armies. Others, serving women in his forts and castles, and still there were others who were the wives of other men. Uther Pendragon cared not, and claimed them all in the name of his kingship.

She was the eldest. And... she would never claim the throne. Her father had made that clear, that he would never have one of his daughters on the throne after him.

Which was why she was seated before the hearth yet again, gazing into the fire as she murmured an aria to focus her mind.

Merlin had once said that her ability to foretell the future was a useful one, but that it wasn't a True Magic as such were known. That what she saw were shadowy echoes from the Kaleidoscope, a well of worlds that were so close that perhaps, only one or two minor details were off.

She had seen, would see the birth of Her. The one that Uther would declare king despite what he had said of never allowing a girl to sit upon his throne.

Seen as the little girl was perversely raised as a boy. Observed as Merlin created a situation... watched as the little slip of a chit pulled the sword out of the stone, and be chosen as king of Albion because of a sword and a deception.

Unforgivable.

Had she not cared for Father's wishes? Studying magics beneath many a magus to better aid her future brother, the son of Uther Pendragon. He who would be the next king of Britain.

As she raged at the unfairness of it all, at the hypocrisy, she could feel the creamy white wool shawl that she held in her hands get twisted by her far too pale hands.

That was when a voice spoke up behind her. A voice far too cheerful and happy to be permitted to exist. A youthful voice much like that of a friendly boy.

"Hello, you seemed troubled."

It was also a voice she didn't recognize. That it had come from behind her, deep within the safety of Tintagel...

As these observations sped in her mind, Morganna stayed visibly still even as her hand ever so slowly moved towards where her dagger hung from her belt.

"Tis only natural for me to be troubled. The winter seems overtly long this year," The dark haired royal daughter of Uther spoke coyly, even as her heart pounded before she stood up with a swirl of her dress, dagger in hand to face the intruder.

Which... was a small, white cat thing. Crimson eyes brilliant as rubies, white fur the hue of immaculately pure snow, and a most fluffy tail that flicked behind it. And there were those extra pair of ears from its ears with floating gold rings. Extra ears that shifted to pink down their length, and possessed a trio of blood red gems on its pink tips of its secondary ears. Upon its back a ring of crimson.

A fairy.

One that was seated upon the window, as it looked upon her kindly with a smile.

"Would you like a wish to make it end? Or perhaps for some thing else?" It 'spoke' once more without opening its mouth.

"What? What do you mean a wish?"

Here, she was surprised. This was something she hadn't expected.

No mere fairy would just offer a wish.

Not like this.

"Indeed, that is exactly what I mean, Morganna Pendragon. I want you to make a contract with me and become a Puella Magi. In return, I shall make anything you wish come true."

The cheerful manner that it spoke of wishes being granted brought a pause to the daughter of Uther Pendragon.

"My wish?"

"It can be anything," It nodded at her question, ears twitching happily. "I can make any miracle you desire come true. And in return, you shall become a Puella Magi, a being of hope."

In the light of the setting sun, with a crackling fire behind her, Morganna dared to hope. "But... what is a Puella Magi?"

At her question, the cat-like fairy positively beamed with joy and leaped into the room from where he had sat; upon the ledge of the window with the light of the descending sun framing him.

* * *

><p><strong>Puella Magi Schuetze Aurulent<strong>

_Part 2 : Anger is like fire, it keeps one warm._

* * *

><p>She, naturally, did not make a wish. How could she?<p>

To be a being of hope was certainly all nice and fine.

But to no longer be human.

To be beholden to slay such thing as Witches?

Such a thing was detestable. She was no hero.

No valiant warrior out to save Albion and all the known world from the destructive evils of mankind and the world.

It was true that she was angry.

But she was not foolish enough to trade everything all away for a momentary chance at revenge against her father and that thieving slattern.

No. She would find another path. Another way.

And yet... in another world, another time, things would happen differently.

Because, occasionally, wishes can influence other wishes that never were uttered, that were yet to be uttered.

And that ever distant utopia, that dream most unreachable, could end up in one's hands.

If one had the desire and will to pay the price for attaining it.


	4. History burns easily in fire

The knight clad in blue and white stumbled into the Municipal Hall. Her armor, once immaculate, was shattered here and there. Soot and blood, or a fair approximation there of from herself and her opponents, covered her face and hands.

Still, her nobility shone despite the dirt that covered her mortal form. Her far too pale and far too mortal form.

Shone as brilliant as the sword that she held in one hand loosely. A singular sword that spoke of who and what she was; the bearer of the crystallized prayers of humanity, the sword of promised victory.

She didn't stride into the building as a conquering knight would.

But as a wounded warrior would, cautious and prepared. Pain wracking her body. Consciousness was a state that was likely to be lost. Soon. But still...

She had been brought here by the smoke signal. Ambushed by the one thing she could not, would not have expected.

Ahh... the Knight of the Lake.

His death. That resolution.

Upon his death, she had vowed once more to make her recompense.

To win that victory for her homeland. Albion of old, as the men of today called it.

To her, it was always home.

And for them, she would win. She would obtain the grail and with it...

Ah... Saber sighed as she stepped forwards. Ever forwards into building. Walked into the flames that burned away at her form, pain her constant companion now.

Still, she walked on further into the hell that the Municipal Hall had become.

An eternity later, Saber stood at the entrance to the empty music hall. The doors had been pushed open inwards, in the distance could be heard the single echoing shot of Kiritsugu's weapon.

The golden chalice hung in midair, encircled by flames. A golden radiance shone around it, granting the gold vessel an aura of holiness that caught one's eyes.

This. For this she had struggled.

For this, Irisviel had died, with Saber unable to protect her despite her vows.

Witness her friend, fallen into madness for the love that he had shared with her queen. The torment she could not end, could not resolve.

As had her realm fallen. Failure upon failure.

If as a king, she could not connect with her closest of friends and companions, how could she understand the condition of those she ruled?

Cruel. Heartless. They had labeled Saber such in her existence.

A distance that she couldn't bridge. For she had to be the perfect king for her people, thus she had to rise above them all. Her home country. Nothing else would suffice for that which she had loved with all her heart.

That which she had sacrificed everything for; the life of one of Uther's daughters.

The life of an ordinary human.

The existence where she could connect with another person, truly.

To be a king was to suffer. To have an existence filled with nothing but regrets. No matter what the Golden King who had played at Archer, or Iskander the King of Conquerors had said.

An existence of regret.

But one that could be... would be corrected soon.

And so, she would fulfill that oath laid upon her by Irisviel as they exchanged vows beneath the falling snow as immaculate whiteness shrouded the city around them.

_"Saber, you must get the Grail. For you, and your Master"_

That promise. That was all that kept Saber moving.

To gain the grail.

For Kiritsugu.

For herself.

For her beloved homeland long lost to time, concealed by the mists of yesteryear and buried within history books.

For those who dwelt in it.

For those who suffered from her rule.

For her friends.

For Lancelot.

For Guinevere.

For those two who upheld the same ideals as she had, but fallen and yet forgiven.

Yes, for them.

And so, she stepped forward. Step by step. Pain filling her body, slowing her down. But never dulling that purpose within her frame.

And the world revolved around that single reason.

The grail was descending before her, and as it did, she could see its aura flaring brighter as yet more servants fell in the distance.

Of the three kings who drank together that night, there stood but one now.

The one filled with regrets.

The one filled with arrogance and the notion of discarding her crown and mantle heavy upon her head and shoulders.

The one who desired.

The one who burned with the hope of a better yesterday.

The one whose pain served to narrow her world down to herself, the golden and most holy chalice that she stepped towards.

Kiritsugu's presence wasn't acknowledged beyond a look of relief when she saw him walking next to her.

Their respective injuries had slowed Saber down to something that a mortal could match.

Especially a human who happened to know magecraft.

"Kiritsugu. So... you made it too."

The not quite nod and silence suited the assassin who was her master, who was Irisviel's husband.

Together, they walked towards the remains of the homunculus whose organs had unfolded and transformed back into the golden material of the Holy Grail, into which were poured the prana of the Fallen Servants, the defeated Heroic Spirits.

Kings, far too brilliant for the world they had been summoned into.

Knights and warriors, most valiant.

Magus and assassins, most insane and loyal.

Standing before the grail and supported by her master, Saber dared to hope.

Allowed herself the slender sliver of a possibility that there would be a happily ever after for her.

But for such a thing to occur.

The grail... could only grant a single wish.

Even as Kiritsugu lifted his right hand to gaze at his command seals, or perhaps to show their presence before using them, Arthuria had already discarded the last of her honor, the remnants of her pride as a knight.

A spin and a loose swing with Excalibur, the sword of promised victory. A splatter of blood and viscera as her armored skirt flared outwards with her movement.

A tactic that she had been renown for in the wars she fought; for the greater good, she would sacrifice.

One village for the sake of ten villages.

A hundred men for the sake of ten thousand men.

The reputation of the heartless king, unknown to time. Nor known to humanity. That was what King Arthuria had been called by those of her era.

"I... I'm sorry Kiritsugu. But Avalon will keep you alive... and heal you in time," she smiled sadly down at her master, his body evenly bisected. Crimson blood splattered from the empty hollow where his guts and lungs had spilled out from.

Without air, one couldn't speak.

Without words, one couldn't command.

And without commands, a master's command seals were useless.

A single enough equation.

Once more, Saber looked at the descending chalice. The embodiment of an unspeakable magecraft given physical form.

"I am sorry, Irisviel.  
>This is the only way.<br>The only path.  
>For even a wretch such as I to make restitution to my people.<br>To my kingdom.  
>I would trample upon my pride for this."<p>

Tears filled her eyes as she apologized to the golden vessel that had once being a woman she had grown close to. Had been friends with, for far too brief a period.

Swallowing once more, Saber donned the mantle of rulership in her mind and heart before speaking to the Holy Grail. For this was no longer her friend, this was a mystic engine fueled by prana to grant wishes.

"Now, Mighty Grail, you have supped deeply upon the hopes, dreams, ambitions and wishes of man and heroic spirits alike.  
>And drunk even deeper upon the despair and curses of those fallen on the path that led to you.<br>Thus, I call upon you. Tis time for you to pay for your fine meal."

She paused and swallowed, closing her eyes, as she verbalized the conceptualization of her wish. The one true desire that she had been drawn to this time for. The one thing she had contracted with the world for.

A chance to make amends.

And now, that chance was hers. The moment lay in her hands.

"Great and Holy Grail, hear my wish!  
>I am not a worthy king fit for my kingdom.<br>I wish that there had been another.  
>A better ruler than I to guard and guide my kingdom.<br>Thus do I wish.  
>Thus do I command."<p>

With that, Saber who once was known as King Arthur Pendragon, and before that, simply Arthuria grasped the holy chalice and let the prana within the vessel absorb her words and her body.

The pain vanished as her body burned away, becoming nothing more than motes of light that drifted upwards, and her existence becoming naught more than a dream.

"I... I am sorry, Irisviel... Illyasviel. Kiritsugu.  
>But this is the only way.<br>I have no more regrets."

In the winter pre-dawn of Fuyuki city, a black sun arose from the Municipal Hall.

* * *

><p><strong>Puella Magi Schuetze Aurulent<strong>

_Part 3 : Like books and paper, history burns easily in fire..._

* * *

><p>"I wish to possess the power to be a queen.<br>I, Morganna Pendragon, desire to become a great queen.  
>To possess the power and ability to become the greatest witch-queen known to man.<br>This is my desire. My hope.  
>Now, make my wish manifest, oh lord of the fairy, Kyuubey!"<p>

_Wishes are, in the end, nothing more than words._  
><em>Words shaped by hope.<em>  
><em>Desires.<em>  
><em>Dreams.<em>  
><em>Needs.<em>  
><em>Despair.<em>  
><em>But, some times, wishes can come true.<em>  
><em>Even if their results are unforeseen.<em>

All hail Morganna Pendragon, Eternal Witch-Queen of Britannia.


	5. War and victory are like fire

The steady sound of metal upon asphalt echoed in the chilly winter night. A relentless staccato that echoed against the road and buildings surrounding the road.

One that said I come. I am.

A notion and conceit worthy of the heroic mount that could only belong to the King of Conquerors. Both horse and rider were larger than life. Beyond mere physical prowess, they bore a majestic presence. A mien not seen in the modern day, one lost over the ages with the lessening of man as cold hard science and logic replaced the fantastical wonder that came of beholding the world as it was.

Iskander truly belonged to an era before the world had moved on, as the age of the gods ended.

Still, in the monochrome landscape painted white, black and gray by the light of the uncaring moon high above as it shed its light. A brilliant and stark silver luminance that mingled with the washed out light from the blinking lamps poles that lined the streets, side by side.

A forest of steel amidst hills of wood and concrete, with globes of light floating beneath branches of steel. With the chilly breeze sharp from the heart of winter that yet still gripped Fuyuki city, it was possible to close one's eyes to imagine that one was across the world. Perhaps campaigning in the hinterlands, of what would become Europe, in Iskander's era.

At least, Waver Velvet imagined it so, as he sat before his servant, cross-saddle. A soft part of his mind murmured that this was how maidens in ages past sat upon their mounts. The strong arms of their lords surrounding them, the scent of well-cared leather armor heavy around them while the creaking of the armor with the motion of their wearers filled their ears.

Had mankind truly fallen that far in the long ages, as they praised the false gods of science and technology? Where men like him were as soft maidens to the hard masculinity of the heroes of antiquity?

Would future generations yet to come become nothing more than soft pale slugs that sat fatly before illuminated screens; laughing, raging, weeping upon command and offering their worship and love to false tawdry imagery that were nothing more than electrical pulses given shape and form?

Such idle thoughts were not worthy, and indeed, surrounded by the silent and overflowing presence of his Rider, Waver found himself drinking in the world around him as if he was a man long trapped in a desert who now found himself in an oasis.

The divide between life and death, where one's soul is shriven and exposed to the truth of the world with no self-deceptions, embellishments, nor a mind that strove to explain things with labels and conceits of his upbringing.

A sense of wonder rose in his heart to blossom in his soul, the world simply was.

An eternal moment of white, black, and soft velvety darkness. Shrouded by the world's mysteries and paradoxes, Waver accepted it all and found himself at peace. Perhaps, this was what eastern bodhisattvas meant when they spoke of peace being a singular moment without judgment, without conception or thinking that things could be better or worse or some other way.

The noble warhorse with its rider and his passenger moved out of the city, leisurely venturing towards the boundaries set for the Heaven's Feel; a border of darkness that neatly delineate what was Fuyuki city and what wasn't, Miongawa river.

The soft lapping of the water on the bank echoed softly in a pale shadow of Oceania that lay within Iskander's heart and simultaneously at the edge of the world.

Spanning above the darkness that served as the boundary was the Fuyuki bridge; a construct of steel, painted white by the brilliance of hollow mercury lamps. The light cast were sufficient to drown out the light of the moon and stars above. A modern bridge that bore an aura of light and which lay over perdition, between life and death.

"Rider, that's..." It wasn't necessary for Waver to complete his statement, as Rider responded with a slow nod. He, too, had seen him.

Illuminated by the brilliance of the man-made light as if cast in the light of day, the golden armour shone as if a fragment of the glory of the sun had been made manifest and deigned to step upon the filthy world of mud. The lamps' light were mocked and rejected as if the very presence of the armour said that it only bore the light forged of man's artifice because the sun itself had yet to rise to illuminate it as was right and proper.

The cruel gaze gracing the noble visage. Remorseless, haughty as only a king could be. The rich ruby hue of the eyes was enough to pressure Waver into stillness, pushing him against Iskander with nothing more than the mere presence of the king of antiquity.

Servant Archer, the King of Heroes, Gilgamesh.

* * *

><p>As he sat upon Bucephalas, Velvet Waver carved each and every moment upon his mind and soul; that no matter what happened, as long as he existed, this would be remembered. To do any less would be an insult to Rider and Archer.<p>

Thus, did he observe his Servant speaking to the Golden King of Heroes.

Watched the look of surprise and the rebuke from Gilgamesh be responded with and transformed into polite discourse.

Followed by shared laughter and one last drink.

And yet, that aura. That killing intent from the ancient kind of Babylonia did not waver in the slightest, even in laughter.

A killing intent matched, perhaps, by the overflowing aura of prana and power from Waver's Rider.

At the return of Iskander to the bridgehead where Waver waited, the magus could only sigh as an unspoken tension rested in his heart.

"Did the two of you actually get along?"

"Well, we'll be killing each other now. Or he could be the last opponent in my entire life that I will exchange glances with. I can't be ungrateful," The wishful look on Rider's face spoke of how few challenges the modern world had for him. Still, it was only in the here and now that he could meet his equals and peers from history to face in words, deeds and combat.

"..." Waver's words were stiff and stifled with unspoken emotions. "Don't be stupid. There's no way you can be killed. I won't accept that. Did you forget my Command Seals?"

"Ah... that's right," With a smile, Iskander once more straddled the back of his waiting mount, before unsheathing his blade. "Gather, my brethren! Tonight, we shall mark our gallant figures into legend once more! The strongest of legends!"

A burning wind blew upon the bridge, surging from the city behind them, dispersing the mist from the river below.

The thoughts, the hopes, the countless brave warriors and soldiers who had once shared the same dream as their king, formed around the upraised sword of the Cypriots.

Drawn forth from the Throne of Heroes, outside of space and time, to march once more with their beloved king.

Unbound heavens that was of a pure blue hue than the purest of sapphires. A horizon that spanned further than mortal eyes could see lay concealed behind the haze of the great heat from the sun above head, that all could gaze at as one with a great heart that they may ascertain its reality.

The thoughts, the dreams, the hopes of those valient warriors called forth were of such purity and puissant that they eroded the reality of the world. That the world was denied, and thus was the uninhabited steel bridge into a great plain within a raging whirlwind.

One by one, the countless Heroic Spirits marched to their appointed stations and places in the stage of the decisive battle that they had been summoned to.

This was but the second time that Waver Velvet witnessed the spectacle of the arrayed Ionion Hetairoi in their all of their magnificence. A countless formation of Heroic Spirits was something to view with respect, certainly. But now that he had learnt of the heart, the very soul, of Alexander the Great's kingship, his awe was all the greater. Even if the original shock was no longer a thing that existed, the sense of awe could only grow in its absence.

The bond, the contract, that lay between noble lord and servant. That was what the shining elite warriors had formed with the King of Conquerors. A bond that not even the barrier between life in the human world and the afterlife in the Throne of Heroes could sever. Nay, it was a bond that transcended distance, time, and even existance.

There was nowhere where they would not march to battle. No plane of existance beyond their king and his comrades. If Iskander, the King of Conquerors would set forth in his tyranny, in his ursupation and conquest, they would follow.

How could they not?

That was their pride as companions of their king.

Of being one with their lord.

Their blood boiled and surged as one. Of being able to raise their weapons, to march and ride with him. To battle alongside him.

"Our enemy stands there! The king of Heroes! Greater than hundreds of thousands of heroes! An opponent worthier than any. Who lacks in no regard! Come! My companions! Let us show the First Heroic Spirit the way of our tyranny!" Iskander's gesture at Gilgamesh was one of true confidence.

An aura of absolute certainty that what they faced was something that could only be magnificent.

And that they would prove its equal and triumph over it.

"Ooooh!" The responding cheer from the countless arrayed heroes of the Ionion Hetairoi filled the air in equal to their king's roar and declaration.

A single figure clad in gold stood before them in silence.

A solitary figure that stood much like a lone mountain before the host of heroes that boiled in excitment much like the roaring high seas. An existance in singularity that showed not a speck of dismay, not a fragment of despair.

Archer simply existed.

Much like the very world, he simply was.

Imposing, his demeanor. He barred their path much like a mountain in majesty. His aura was one filled with killing intent and pure unrelenting power, a presence that pushed low all that dared to approach him. The intimidation, absolute intimidation, that flowed from him much like rivers would from a mountain fed snow peaks, was inimitable and unmistakable; one could expect no less from a demi-god who had ascended to the ranks of the Heroic Spirits gathered in the Throne of Heroes.

The First.

And, quite possibly even, the Original Hero who ventured forth on to that Throne of Heroes outside of existance.

"Come, Lord of Vanquishers. Come and be enlightened. For in the here and now, I shall show you the true form of a King..." The cruel smile that graced the face of Gilgamesh was of one who delighted in battle, as he gestured for those who dared to stand before him to come.

To the boast from the King of Heroes, there was but one response.

The only response, in truth.

War.

Conflict.

And thus the host of Heroic Spirits charged as one, led by the heroic horse Bucephalus, in a wedge formation. A calvary charge not seen since the Age of the Gods.

A bellow from Rider was responded to by a battle cry from his valient knights and warriors. To the surging waves of shouts and harsh thungering songs that came from the throats of the Heroic Spirits and from the hooves of their mount, Velvet Waver found that even his quiet voice rose with all its might in a cry from his heart.

"AAAALaLaLaLaie!"

The rumbling and shaking of earth, as the air filled with clouds of dust and sand, was the truth that lay in what surged towards Gilgamesh.

An unrelenting force of nature that came of men and their mounts being as one, their hearts beating to the pulse of their king's heart and hot blood.

Before this overwhelming magnificence, lesser men would have broken, would have quailed. Gilgamesh did not move.

His only response was the shining of fierce joy in his ruby red eyes. A joy that could only come from one who had completely exhausted all the pleasures that the world could hold, and yet now... now had found something worthy to be called a challenge.

An equal.

A peer to match his arm against.

A sublime joy that none could truly say to possess before now.

All this was clear to Waver Velvet as he gazed upon Gilgamesh, from where he rode with Iskander. That the Servant Archer was pleased by Rider's assault was an immutable fact.

That the challenge essayed by and from Rider was worth pitting the entirety of his full strength against.

Surrounded by the fellow companions who rode with Rider, Waver Velvet could not hear the words uttered by Archer. But he could see what that Heroic Spirit did as the otherworld vault of his was once more unlocked by the key sword in his hand.

A single weapon drawn forth.

The noble phantasm that defined him. Or, at least, best defined his legend.

A singular honor that the Golden King would never give to any that he did not respect in truth. That he would battle them with the sword that was his and his alone, in place of the rain of noble phantasms that he threw away carelessly.

Still, the shape wasn't what one would call a sword. At least in any normal conventional sense. It possessed a basket hand guard, a grip for one's hand to hold it with. But where the blade would be, a stone pillar of onyx emerged, formed of three sections that lined up and a tip that spun restlessly in a spiral.

Like a series of querns, millstones that spun, the "blade" could not in truth be called a blade. It wasn't truly a sword.

The aura it bore was of an incalculable age, beyond conceptualization. Waver Velvet wouldn't have been surprised if informed that the priceless artifact came from an age before the notion of a "sword" was conceived, or even perhaps... before history. Before the birth of the world, itself.

Slowly the triple sections spun... but, moving ever faster. The prana that spilled forth from the weapon beyond measure; in comparison to the prana that poured forth from Rider, the prana from the weapon was an ocean that threatened to drown the word to Rider's roaring torrent of a river that flowed into the ocean.

It seemed an eternity as Archer lifted his weapon over his head. The spinning sections brought forth ever greater amounts of prana, raw and unrefined, but oh so potent in its heaviness and purity.

"It's coming!" The roar from Rider solidified the sensation of absolute danger that Waver felt within his heart, within his very fabric of existance. That the crimson tornado of prana around Archer's weapon was something that could not be stopped, that should only be dodged if possible.

Where Saber's Excalibur had been pure and cold in its absolute, Archer's noble phantasm was heavy and hot with primeval vigor. One that would thrust forward, ignoring any and all defense.

That was what Waver felt.

The sensation of death from the lonely golden shadow standing before the pounding army of Heroic Spirits did not flicker, only increase.

There was a moment of silence as the mighty King of Heroes declared the power of his Noble Phantasm, the crystalized legend that he bore in his hands. "Come now and look up and gaze. Upon Enuma Elish!"

And then the world BURNED and screamed as the heavens was sundered with the release of the enormous collection of prana was allowed to release and shoot forth. Space, time, reality... such things were as weak illusions before its power. Crude filiment that it ground thru, crushing and gnashing.

Archer hadn't aimed his noble phantasm.

He didn't need to.

For of what need did he have to aim, when his target was the world?

The entire world before Archer was his target.

Waver's eyes widened and his heart jumped at the chasm forming from the mere existance of the attack. A chasm that darted straight at Bucephalas and those who sat upon his noble back.

A fracture within the world that would swallow them and those who followed.

"Heyyy~!" The command from Iskander accompannied the scream that filled Waver's world. A scream that he realized was coming from him.

But the horse he sat upon, and the rider who controlled it, to imagine that they would be daunted by the dangers of fissures with infinite depths forming beneath them would be to laugh and insult them.

There was a reason that Iskander had been summoned as the servant class Rider.

Thus at his command, Bucephalas kicked off from the crumbling ground and... flew.

Before slamming down once more upon solid ground upon the far side of the chasm after an eternal moment of weightlessness.

Those who followed... Waver paled and forced himself to look as those who had ridden alongside Rider and him attempt to follow alongside their king; the keyword was attempt.

They tumbled one by one into the darkness.

An ever expanding void of Nothingness.

It was clear to Waver's sight that the chasm that Bucephalas had leapt was growing as it consumed those at the rear who had stopped their charge.

But the fissure wasn't simply a parting of earth. It was, literally, a zone of nothingness that warped the air, distorting the fabric of space.

Twisting and sucking inwards everything around it; air, earth, dust, and heroic spirits alike.

To such a thing, neither Waver nor Rider had words to describe.

That such a weapon existed, that set forth in motion the consumption and destruction of the world around it.

That it existed was beyond the notions of man and heroic spirit alike.

The dark void that spun, twisting ever inwards as it consumed everything, grew only stronger the more it consumed.

Like a mirror that was warped inwards by an unknowable hole in reality, the great plain of hot sand woven by the presence of the Ionian Hetairoi, by their distortion upon the world, splittered and shattered... consumed by the dark void unleased by Archer's noble phantasm.

A weapon that could not be distinguished with such terms as "anti-personnel", "anti-unit", "anti-army", or even "anti-fortress". If there were such a thing, the noble phantasm could only be called "anti-world", for it broke the world.

Leaving nothing but a shining star shining upon a primordial void that burned and twisted with raw potential.

And the world was unmade.

The world was an illusion. A conceptual dream cast forth by Gaia as she danced around the warm and glowing sun. A notion that she wasn't alone, that her children could exist upon her mantle and do homage to her by living.

A fine illusion. The finest distortion upon reality by an entity who simply existed. Who could not fail to exist.

Reality was defined by her. It took great madness and power beyond mortal men to distort that dream of hers and replace it with a tiny pearl, a miniscule marble, that she would crush in time.

The weapon unleashed by Archer broke reality as surely as if its dreamer had awoken. That it was a reality marble, a world smaller in scope and created by the dreams of men, was a pointless fact. It was the same as that of Gaia's dream.

All that differed was a matter of scale. And if it was just a degree of power, then... all that was needed was greater amounts of prana to shatter the reality of the world and reveal what lay beneath it. Lay beneath, before and after it. Dreams had an ending too when the dreamer awoken.

And Prana was something that Archer was never in need of.

For such was the strength of that servant Archer.

Nay, the strength of Gilgamesh, the golden King of Heroes.

Peerless was he as he stood upon the pinancle of might. His existance was, as he had claimed, peerless.

Swallowing dryly, Waver had to admit to himself that Tohsaka had truly summoned a monstrous servant of a Heroic Spirit.

One who still stood at the bridge head with the destruction of the reality marble that the Ionian Hetairoi had brought with them. With his sword in hand and a smile upon his face, while Rider was quite without his companions.

"Rider..." Waver looked up at his servant, seeing his far too pallid face reflected in Iskander's eyes.

"Come to think of it, there's one thing that I have been meaning to ask you," At this statement from Rider, Waver blinked in puzzlement.

"Ah?"

"Waver Velvet. Would you serve me? To be mine and mine alone as my servant?"

The question. Ah, that was the question that Waver Velvet had always desired deep within his heart as he was drawn into Iskander's world. Desired, but knowing that he would never be asked, that it would be beyond his reach much like an ever distant distant utopia.

He didn't need to think, or search within himself for an answer to such a question. It was perhaps like a woman being asked by her beloved to be with him, the answer was so blindingly obvious that it need not be thought of or even spoken.

It simply was.

Still, in an imperfect world such as the one that they dwelt in, Waver had to struggle to speak. To give voice to the overwhelming emotions that surged from the bottom of his heart at being asked that.

To be part of something greater.

To belong to Iskander the Great, the King of Conquerors.

To serve him.

"You..."

For someone who finally acknowledged him, to call his name at last, Waver Velvet could blink as tears formed in his eyes and flowed to chest. Threwing his chest wide, the boy... no, the man responded with a steady voice.

"You are my king. And I will serve you. I will give the entirety of my mind, body and soul to you. Please share your dream with me." A delicate hand rested upon his chest as he looked up at his king, his Iskander. "Show me the way forward and guide me."

At the response with its solemn tearful oath, Iskander could only smile. To Waver, that smile was all the reward he could ever desire now. Far greater than the simple dream he once held of achieving by winning the Holy Grail War.

"Very well."

Two words, and yet they were so much more than just words. The simple acceptance in them brought a warmth and joy to his heart. Along with being lifted up before being set down beside the great presence of Iskander and Bucephalas.

"Ah?" The coldness of the world without the comforting presence of Iskander and the trembling warmth between his legs brought a look of... uncertainty to Waver's face. Followed by confusion as Iskander laid his mantle upon the young magus' shoulders.

The very same mantle that had been used as a catalyst, once upon a time, to summon the great King of Conquerors.

"It is my duty as a king to examplify the dream that we share. As it is yours as my servant to witness the dream of his king. That it may be transmitted down the generations, so that the deeds of his king are never forgotten."

A warm smile graced Iskander's face as he gazed down on Waver from where he sat upon Bucephalas. Trembling with unspoken emotions and words, Waver gazed upwards with tear filled eyes and listened to the royal command from his king.

The certainty was there that this would perhaps be the last time they would hold concourse as master and servant in this world. A farewell that was suited for a king to his servant, or perhaps the last words from a manly man to those he leaves behind.

But perhaps, in the Throne of Heroes... they would be reunited.

"Live, Waver Velvet. Live and witness everything to its conclusion. Live long, be fruitful, and tell your children and their children of me. Let them hear of our deeds together, of your king. Of this Iskander and his last charge."

Waver could only hung his head wordlessly, as Iskander smiled and thumped his chest with a fist. Words were not necessary.

A king's commands are simply that, absolutes.

There are those who would ignore such. But down that path walks the traitors.

For a servant who loves his king? For one who is loyal to the spirit that shines from within the one they serve?

To do nothing less than what is asked or commanded of them is unthinkable.

With the oath given freely by Waver, the bond between king and servant was eternal, beyond all boundaries and time. The king had merely to ask, to call for him... and the servant shall surely come.

And thus Waver nodded silently before looking up at Iskander, eyes filled with tears but blazing with emotion unspoken. "Iskander... you... you are strong. You will win."

"To conquest! Bucephalas!" With that, Iskander thundered forward. Sword in hand. Charging at his enemy who stood waiting for him. A war-cry filling his lungs as his steed's hooves trampled upon the asphalt like a machine gun firing thunder bolts in rapid sequence.

"AAAALaLaLaLaie!"

Waver could only watch as his king rode forward, the narrow path to death and destruction. The prospects of victory low to none. Sword in hand, bravado and spirits strong in heart, a loud cry upon his lips.

"To Philotimo!" The challenge from the noble figure against the shining glorious golden shadow with eyes crimson as blood brought a smile to Waver's lips before it faded away.

For the stars rained down upon Iskander.

Ten.

Twenty.

Thirty.

Hundreds.

Hundreds upon hundreds of noble phantasms rained upon Iskander from where Gilgamesh stood. Each shooting forth with sufficient speed and power to transform into streaks of light, into shooting stars.

While not all of them struck Iskander or Bucephalas. More and more did.

The young magus could only weep at the sight. Blood flowed freely from both rider and mount.

Eventually, the noble horse that was itself a heroic spirit fell.

And Iskander charged on.

Step after step.

Unyielding.

Relentless.

Ever moving forward.

One step taken after another, each reflecting another injury.

The look of surprise upon the face of Iskander's enemy brought a soaring hope into Waver's heart even as it winced as each new noble phantasm embedded itself in noble and kingly flesh.

The spinning chains that struck as serpents to bind the King of Conquerors wasn't enough to stop him. Not nearly enough.

Another step.

And the down-swing of a sword.

Blood splattered.

And Waver broke from where he stood to run forward.

To his king.

To his king where he stood victorious beyond the fallen form of his enemy.

* * *

><p><strong>Puella Magi Schuetze Aurulent<strong>

_Part 4 : War and victory are like fire, they consume everything._

* * *

><p>"This expedition has certainly been... exciting and invigorating," The young magus could only weep as his king, his Iskander, turned to look at him with weary eyes.<p>

Eyes that held only joy at having found what he sought. Eyes covered by his noble and princely blood.

As if the slaying of Gilgamesh had allowed Iskander to fulfill his dream.

Bloodstained lips curved upwards in a smile as Gilgamesh's body faded away into motes of light.

"Remember well this last charge. This last victory. Waver," A blood speckled cough as one by one the noble phantasms shot by Archer vanished. And with it, servant Rider faded into motes of prana. "And thank you... for summoning me."

"Is... Iskander?" Disbelief filled his voice at the sight of his King vanishing into light. There would be those who would say that he had been abandoned once more. But there lay the command laid upon him.

To live.

To be fruitful.

To speak of his Iskander.

The battle had taken the span of mere moments, but it was an eternity. And even should his sight fade, Waver would always remember that last charge.

Of Rider.

Of Iskander, the King of Conquerors.

Of his final charge upon the original Heroic Spirit, Gilgamesh and his unthinkable victory.

And beyond the magus, in the distance before him... a black sun ascended into the heavens above the city of Fuyuki.


	6. Hope is like fire

Two by two, eyes of ruby red.  
>These eyes see everything.<p>

Six by six, these eyes upon hands,  
>they see inside of you.<br>Inside of me as they reach inside.

Hands three by three,  
>painted red with blood innocent.<p>

And always, that smile.  
>That gentle, gentle smile.<p>

A smile in life.  
>A smile in death.<p>

A smile for you.  
>A smile for me.<p>

A smile to hope.  
>A smile to despair.<p>

A smile for all of time.  
>Unending.<p>

You always see it, from the corners of your eyes.  
>A swirl of white, of innocence and purity.<br>A tail that is not a tail.

You will always see it.  
>But those eyes of yours, they will never see it.<p>

They will never see those twin crowns of golden sun metal.  
>Nor the king who wears those crowns.<p>

The eternal king  
>Of gods...<br>Of demons...  
>Of fairies...<br>Of witches and sorceresses...

Kyubey, the wanderer from a distant realm in the dark between stars.

The bringer of miracles.  
>The forger of magic.<br>The harbinger of hope.

* * *

><p><strong>Puella Magi Schuetze Aurulent<strong>

_Interlude : Hope is like fire, it burns brighter when fed._

* * *

><p><em>Contract with me and become a being of hope!<em>  
><em>A wish shall be given to you.<em>  
><em>In return, you shall become a Puella Magi.<em>  
><em>A savior of humanity.<em>  
><em>A heroine beyond compare.<em>  
><em>One who battles that which would destroy humanity.<em>  
><em>A magical girl.<em>


	7. Happiness is like a fire

"Sister, are you happy?"

That question was, to be honest, unexpected to Arthuria.

She was happy.

She had to be happy.

Had not her wish being granted by the Holy Grail?

With the sacrifice of Irisviel, while Excalibur ran red with Kiritsugu's blood?

Had she not suffered? Not wept? Not killed true and loyal friends for the sake of her wish?

To compensate her poor rule? A rule that resulted in her own kingdom tearing itself apart because she couldn't even connect to her people?

"Of course, I'm happy, my queen. Why do you ask?" Arthuria the youngest daughter of King Uther Pendragon, well the youngest daughter of age, asked in response.

Perhaps, she hadn't being truly happy, Arthuria admitted to herself.

She had been used to being king, of commanding and bearing the mantle of kingship. Of being a knight and upholding the precepts of knightly virtues.

And to be reborn, to grow up and be raised as just another of her father's daughters. Of whom, the eldest had being nominated as his heir.

Things were different. It was, in truth, a new life.

A second chance.

Where Morganna being crowned the witch queen of Britannia after their father had grown old and fallen in battle. Her sisters bartered off, one by one, to various lords, princes, kings to bind them in alliances and loyalty to Morganna's court in Camelot.

And yet, her memories splintered and forked; showing her what was and what should have been, could have been, never would be.

Her sister was a better ruler, this fact Arthuria had to admit. Better than King "Arthur" could ever be.

A soft touch if necessary, and war as the last resort. Always the last resort, without brutality, and with care for those harmed by it.

Unlike her.

The cold calculating manner where she sacrificed villages so that more could be spared. The one who believed that the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few.

So, the lie here. If not the truth.

She was happy. She had to be happy. For she had suffered and suffered for this.

Still, her sister, the witch queen sighed and dismissed their attendants and maids.

"Oh, Arthuria," A shake of Morganna's head, that soft slight curve of crimson lips, a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "If you can not truthfully answer that question to yourself, nor to me. I dread how you will answer my next question."

The blond princess blinked, her next question? Was Morganna now about to do what she had dreaded. Had done to Arthuria's older sisters. An invitation to her chambers in private, and a question as to which chieftain, noble lord, princeling, or perhaps king they would like to marry out of a list of such she had selected as 'worthy' of alliances.

"Sister, as you are now of age, I shall give you a choice. Because of your dreams and what I have seen in my visions," The slight smile grew at the look of confused dread from Arthuria, before Morganna inclined her head as she spoke once more. "I ask of you. Will you wear the dress of a lady, and be married off like your older sisters. Or will you don armour as you might have or could have in another world, kneel and swear fealty to me as one of my knights."

As she gave her choices, the raven haired witch queen raised a hand. Behind which against the wall hung a dress, and on the other side, an painting of a star hanging over a faerie cat as it looked happily at its painter.

"I..." Arthuria's mouth ran dry as she thought.

"What would give you happiness? I will grant you this much, sister, by allowing you a choice to determine your future." The beatific smile from her older sister brought no calmness to Arthuria.

"I have after all seen the way you wistfully looked at the swords of my knights, seen that one time you picked up that sword," Morganna inclined her head. "Your bearing as you 'played' with it was that of a knight, of a warrior without peer. It is clear then that you remember another life from another time."

She was happy with what her wish had wrought, wasn't she? So, should she not pick the obvious answer and be like her many sisters...

"Perhaps on another world in the infinite Kaleidoscope, you could have been a king of knights. But in this world, you have a choice. The question then is, what would make you happy?"

She had no answer to that nor herself, as the lie she had surrounded herself with, exposed itself to her.

* * *

><p><strong>Puella Magi Schuetze Aurulent<strong>

_Part 5 : Happiness is like fire, here one moment... gone the next._

* * *

><p>They marched forth in a train from Castell Caerdydd; the pride of Glamorgan did.<br>A line of glorious warriors were led by knights clad in glittering armour of burnished steel.  
>Flags flew in the cooling breeze beneath a blue heaven as puffy white clouds slowly drifted from the west.<p>

Sheathed swords and upright spears blessed by druids and holymen to strike down the forces sent by the Witch Queen to the south. She might have been newly risen to her power, still one never underestimate what such a fearsome being could put forth.

She had sent but a paltry company of knights to accompany her messenger.

A single messenger. Surely, this had to be a jest of a token or a cunning insult designed to bait the lord of Castell Caerdydd into giving the Witch Queen reason to war with Glamorgan.

And so, the warriors and knights marched forth to demonstrate that their king would not kneel to the Witch Queen who had inherited King Uthyr Pendraeg's throne.

An unnatural perversion of the natural order were she not so potent in magical might as only a Witch Queen could be.

Gwrthefyr had listened to the tales of old, of how Medea the Witch Queen of Colchis brought low by her love for Jason. Of her aunt, Circe 'ere she was tamed by Odysseus.

Witch queens, such as Morganna purported herself to be, were not unknown.

Nor they were infallible. They merely wrought havoc to the natural order of things before being brought low eventually. Usually by a hero.

Or simply vanished as if they never were.

Thus, Gwrthefyr watched as his father rode at the head of the shining train of warriors and knights and felt an ill foreboding as of calamity awaited.

Her legend was still young, her destined calamity yet unknown.

Nor known was how she would be defeated. Perhaps, his father could be the one to bring her low and tame her.

Still, he could see the messenger from the Witch Queen, clad in blue and white and armed with cold steel. Admittedly, they were far away enough that he had to use a spy-glass to observe her.

He had heard of the Witch Queen's dreaded messenger from travelers.

A knight clad in unbreakable steel, blue and white were the colors of his tabard. A mien stern as a dragon's. Bearing a sword that would cleave castles in twain with a single swing. And mounted upon a steed of steel that roared as a dragon would as it charged relentlessly across Britannia. Nay, across the world, swift as the wind and feared like nothing else.

This was the fabled rider clad in white and blue. A knight worth an army, for surely Morganna had to have summoned and bound the lord of the Wyld Hunt as a minion.

And yet. The truth was not quite as he had imagined it to be.

A fair and comely maiden on the cusp of maidenhood. Clad in steel armor that curved and hinted at her womanly curves beneath the surcoat of blue and white.

Her hair was if the sun had been summoned to the rude earth of the world.

A maiden most fair, upon a steed of steel. Albeit a steed of steel with wheels where legs would be. Those parts of the legends were true.

Gwrthefyr had no desire to see if the tale of her sword sheathed at her side held the truth of the legend of shattering the bulwark of any fortress before it.

Still, he watched as she rode forth from the company of knights to speak to his father, Gwrtheyrn, ruler of Glamorgan, upon an open field to the south of the castle.

They spoke for a time, the calm look on the messenger's face a sharp contrast to the red look of rage upon the King's face. Eventually, he wheeled around to rejoin his army.

Gwrthefyr pitied the messenger then. Even if there were some truth to her legend, she had but a single company and his father's army outnumbered her company a hundred to one, easily.

As they charged at each other, he could only sigh and put away his spy-glass to avoid watching the ensuring massacre.

And thus was he not blinded by the birth of a new sun upon the world.

That night, a new flag flew above Castell Caerdydd. Its new king, Gwrthefyr, swore fealty to the Witch Queen to the South upon his knees before her messenger.

The flag that flew above in the night sky a nothing more than a footnote that Castell Caerdydd and all of Glamorgan would kneel to the Witch Queen of Albion, Morganna Pendragon; who had sent but a single messenger accompanied by a company of knights to defeat a standing army within the span of an hour.

Sometimes, diplomacy worked.

Other times, one needed the right tool; such as force overwhelming.


	8. After a fire, comes new growth

"I... I am sorry, Irisviel... Illyasviel. Kiritsugu.  
>But this is the only way.<br>I have no more regrets."

Despite the agony of having been nearly cut in half, of feeling the agony from the regenerative effects of Avalon, Kiritsugu struggled. Channeling prana into reinforcement, to assist the healing provided by the legendary Noble Phantasm, the magus killer knew it wasn't enough.

That it was too late.

The wish had been spoken.  
>And answered.<br>Was being answered.  
>Would be answered.<p>

Was this despair what Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi had known as he died?

What all those who had died at his hands had experienced?

Those guilty whose deaths were required, those innocent whose only crime was to be at the wrong place, at the wrong time?

_"Emiya Kiritsugu and the Heroic Spirit Arthuria will never see eye to eye." _Hadn't that been what Iri had said to him in the privacy of their bed, before their departure from the snow and ice shrouded lands of the Einsbern?

Had the incompatibility of personalities been that great?

That she would strike him down as swift as a knight would an enemy not worth the honor of fighting? Without warning, for such things are no longer needed? Not for the likes of him?

But hadn't he rebuked her for her honor and chivalry, for the notion that the battlefield was a glorious place to stand in? That to battle was to enter hell?

That he would shoulder the burden of all the world's evils to prevent further bloodshed? Had his words been so at odds with his actions that a Heroic Spirit would behave the way Arthuria had, and struck him down as one who would soil the world?

Even so...

Even so...

He would save everyone... somehow.

He could see Arthuria fade away into light, consumed by the Holy Grail as an ebon sun ascended, brimming with the curses of all mankind.

He knew of what it contained.

Had known.

He had wept as he killed his dream while in the grasp of the mind/mentality/spirit of malign and most destructive. The concept of ill will which the ancient people who followed the teachings of Zoroaster had called Angra Mainyu.

Had he had the time, he would have stopped her.

Stopped the wish.

Forced her to use Excalibur upon the grail.

But time cared not for him.

And so that mud, of rancid blood, filled with curses, despair, rage and ill-will towards all of mankind, poured down upon the lesser holy grail.

And filled it before spilling out.  
>Into the world...<br>Towards that which denied it.  
>Which bound it outside of human society.<br>Which cast it out, and then sacrificed upon the alter for the "greater good".  
>It would be born from the wish directed at it.<p>

But even so, Arthuria's wish... such a thing.

To repeal the passage of time.

To twine the fork of history and passage of time, and make what was into what could be. And what might be into what should be.

It would be twisted, Kiritsugu knew with an absolute certainty beyond words, from the drenching in the Mud beyond the grail. The absolute delight of what lay beyond at such a wish.

That the grail could be tainted, how absurd.

That convenient "wish granting machine" was directed by the ghost within it. That which had sought to harness to his purpose.

Heroic Spirits, nothing more than tools to that end.

He had to laugh at his arrogance, as the Mud poured forth from the black sun that upheld the heavens. Poured forth and drenched him once more, filling his hollow cavity with its burning rage.

It burned and yet at the same time, Avalon healed and shielded him to an extend. But the pain was left untouched.

The fatality, that absolute pain of his nerves exploding from his innate time control earlier as he battled Kirei Kotomine was as a drop of water in the ocean of agony now.

The sensation of malicious hatred ate at him.

Consumed him.

And yet.

And yet.

He existed.

He could see.

He could hear.

Observe impotently as the world was consumed by the Mud.

Watched as the men of modern day fought with weapons forged in the brilliance of science.

Watched as magi involved their myriad mystic codes in futile defense against the onslaught.

Watched as daemon girls stood against it.

Watched them be consumed by the Mud.

One by one. All of them.

They all fell down.

And from their fall... greater disasters emerged. Emerged and rampaged before becoming one with the Mud.

Watched as the despair brought forth new daemon girls.

He saw the delight that the liquid darkness dyed with the hatred of humanity, for humanity, as hope became despair.

Saw the flicker of white as girls contracted with things beyond the ken of mankind, that their hope could stave off the rough beast spoken of in Yeat's poem.

Saw the invisible force of the World strain against the hatred that humanity had for it.

And always that rain.

That pink rain from the heavens.

The light that boiled away the darkness, purified the Mud.

A counter to the ill will within that which was born, brought forth.

And the Disasters that rampaged and became one with the Mud... never were.

Hope to despair.

Despair to hope.

Salvation.

But only for the daemon girls as they fell to despair and taint from the Mud.

Never for anyone else.

Magi, mundane humans, and monsters... left to drown in the Mud.

As he was.

Suspended.

Alive.

But consumed, being consumed, would be consumed. Always.

Always. Forever.

An eternity of pain beyond conceptualization, despair beyond depair and regret beyond regret, encapsulated in a moment of crystal clarity.

Emiya Kiritsugu learned to hate that eternal pink shower, as the world was consumed.

Always consumed, backwards in time.

Moment by moment.

A True Magic beyond the understanding and reach of man.

A miracle.

A dark one to be sure, but in the end, still... a miracle.

One born from and of Emiya Kiritsugu's torment in perpetuity, always to suffer. Helpless, impotent as the world he loved so was consumed backwards in time.

Causality destroyed.

* * *

><p><strong>Puella Magi Schuetze Aurulent<strong>

_Part 6 : After a fire, comes new growth..._

* * *

><p>A quiet humming filled the air.<p>

A few notes in repetition.

A familiar tune.

Hadn't he heard something like this before?

Training in the classical arts. Something that a noble magus would undertake.

The essence of being noble required certain skills. And to be a master in the arts was considered appropriate.

Where had he heard it?

Ah...

Iri enjoyed playing that song on the piano in the lazy afternoon.

Ah... yes. Had enjoyed.

She would never have that simple pleasure again.

Because of him.

Because of her family.

And so he relaxed, shame and guilt cast aside as he sought the sanctuary of unconsciousness.

It certainly felt... comfortable, that soft cushion that his head rested on.

Blissful, even, after the pain of ... combat. He had been fighting, hadn't he?

A flash of memory.

Of surprise as his opponent, the obstacle to his goal, had simply deflected an armor piercing round from his Thompson Contender.  
>Surprise at the simple parry, shock at the absolute lack of effect of his mystic code.<br>The absolute negation of his one-shot kill.  
>He had won... eventually.<br>Hadn't he?

A nostalgic scent filled his nose as he slowly relaxed.

Another flash of memory. Of being drenched in... something.

Dark. Malevolent.  
>Happy to grant his wish. All wishes.<br>Mud dyed dark with pain and hatred, cursing the light of hope.

_No..._

Clear formless energy.  
>Unthinking, unknowing. Nothing more than absolutely perfect raw potential.<br>Untainted shapeless miracle to be grasped.

And it **BURNED**.

And his body spasmed in reaction to the phantom pain.

Of pure vileness pouring in, tainting his thoughts, giving ever greater darkness to his will.

_No..._

Of pure and unfiltered mana raging across his Magical Circuits unrestrained.

Overloading them as his prana attempted to protect him.

Soft drops of rain fell upon his face, as a gentle hand stroked his cheek.

Emiya blinked, and opened his eyes to the sheering light of the sun high above. At least he would have, if there hadn't been a face framed by silver white hair.

Framed by silvery white hair, and halo'ed by the light of the sun behind her. The prismatic sparkles of light that came from being in the beam of sunlight separated from its kin by clouds only added to her charismatic mien.

It could only be her.

"Iri..." A blink. To remove the tears, from dust getting in his eyes... nothing more.

"Kiritsugu," her voice was half sigh of relief, and of emotions unspoken and unstated, save in her heart.

Perhaps, this was still a dream, it would certainly explain her presence after... his mind shied away from that fact.

As well as why she was au naturel.

That gentle slope and curves that formed her perfectly breasts were part of what drew his animal side to her. Motherhood hadn't ruined that part of her, like it had with some women. Iri had always laughed and said it was a perk and benefit of being an Einsbern woman.

"So..." His voice sounded somewhat scratchy and unused. It sounded [wrong], the pitch was off.

"So..." Her response now sounded somewhat amused as if she found joy in his surprise and confusion.

"How?" Kiritsugu wasn't much of a magus, accurately styling himself a magic user. He didn't question things that occurred with hows, whys. Rather he focused on the situation, with goals to reach, and the obstacles that had to be destroyed to obtain it, and the collateral damage that had to be minimized as much as possible.

"How else?" She gestured to his not quite silent blink and hmmm before raising up a hand with thumb and finger seperated just so. "This close, we were this close to the goal of the Einsbern. Even with a failure, I nearly managed to grasp the third magic."

"Heaven's feel?"

"Heaven's feel."

"So... Saber's... wish wasn't a failure. Odd, I recall that Saber was summoned, but... I can not remember who or what Saber was." A frown now graced Kiritsugu's face as he thought about this. "Arcane Fate?"

Arcane Fate, the art of erasing one's presence by the world. That information such as one's abilities, true name and appearance traits vanish from the memories and records of those who witness said person. An existence denied by the very world itself, that not even those who knew that being could remember them.

"It's possible, I just know that Saber was not very compatible with you," she smiled at him, before the light breeze across his body reminded him of something important. She wasn't the only who was au naturel.

And there was something wrong with the feedback from his body. Kiritsugu could feel it, knew it, from his experience of knowing just how much his body could handle. Blood and tears had been the price of knowing his body inside and out. "But yes, whatever Saber's wish was... it didn't use up all the prana, and there was a faint connection to Akasha as if something was being compared."

"So, you stole fire from the heavens," An eyebrow rising up was directed at Iri as she giggled and poked his nose in response.

"Or something like that, yes."

"So... what now?" A question he had been dreading.

"So... we return home. And talk to Acht. He will understand what I've done here. With you."

"Me?" Now, he was curious and concerned.

"Yes, you. You know, you were dead for a moment there," Iri's smile didn't match the words that Kiritsugu heard. People died when they were killed, there was no returning from that.

"I... died?" Disbelief colored his voice.

"Yes, dead... for a moment, your body held no soul, no mind, its heart did not beat," She responded without pause. "I pulled you back from the Akashic Records. A success on some level, but not quite what was desired by the Einsbern. Constructed a body for your soul from records of mine. Implanted Saber's summoning catalyst from your old body to use its healing ability to make sure your revival went properly. And here you are."

"And... here I was?" He blinked bemused.

"Yes, Kiritsugu. You are now a Einsbern woman."

"... I... I see. How delightful, and you couldn't put me back in my body?"

"Where would the fun in that be?" She responded with a smile and a shake of her head before continuing on. "Also, your body was... very badly damaged. Complete destruction of the nerves, spinal cord shattered from your magic crest overloading, and where your brain would be..."

She shook her head and gestured to the right, directing Kiritsugu's attention towards a covered body. "It was faster and easier to build you a new body around your soul and the Noble Phantasm."

"Oh. And the crest?" The important question, not because it was the culmination of the Emiya studies into the mechanics of time. But because of how Kiritsugu made use of the thaumaturgical crest to accelerate himself, an unthinkable boost and trump in combat.

"I transplanted the surviving remains, but Kiritsugu... you'll need to examine the crest to see what was destroyed and what can be salvaged," He nodded his head slightly at that, as he or was that now she stood up.

"That's that," she nodded in the light of day. With sirens heard faintly in the distant, Kiritsugu tried not to imagine what the burst of prana from the Holy Grail answering to a wish had done to the people of Fuyuki city. Somethings were best left unknown for the present.

He was alive.

Irisviel was alive, somehow.

They were still together... and nothing would stop him from returning for their daughter.

* * *

><p><strong>Writer's note - <strong>I must apologize for how late this update was. Real life has been a bitch lately, I'll survive and I'll still try to do updates as regular as possible.

EDIT - Some minor edit to the chapter.


	9. The sea's depths can be as bad as fire

Zouken Matou fretted.

An impossibility.

An action that none could or would believe, especially from those who knew of the old man.

Such as Shinji and all who bore the name Matou did.

But still, from the feverish haze of heat that ravaged his body, it appeared to the boy that his... grandfather was fretting over him.

The normal fear that the Matou scion held for the patriarch of his family was subsumed by the fading in and out of awareness, incinerated by the burning heat that radiated from beneath his skin and frozen by the cool air that surrounded him. The lack of his normal fear to color his vision allowed to see that the old man was worried.

The soft muttering was something he couldn't quite catch, and which his mind shied away from fully comprehending.

The words felt wrong.

Meaning, they held. But the manner they strung together, that was wrong. It offended his ears. His sensibilities. Behind those words, he could hear a dull roaring.

And it was not only him.

He could see her... Sakura, his new sister, shuddering at the murmured words every now and then as she looked after him. Shinji was fairly certain that she couldn't hear the same roaring sound that grew and faded, that familiar sound of the sea and yet so very alien, as if they belonged to waves that had never crashed upon the shores of the world.

And yet, even as he looked at Sakura. He could see how... hollow she was. Perhaps, that was why she couldn't hear the roar of the sea.

NPC. A vague part of his mind murmured.

Darkness squirmed in her interior like a mass of shadows. Worms, his mind murmured. Code, the back of his mind murmured.

Every now and then, the world... shifted.

Soft cooling aquamarine hexagons filled the world, interlocking and supporting each other.

Where Sakura walked on the hexagons, light blossom like flowers before inverting into impossible straight lines that glowed and faded swiftly...

But where Zouken walked as he murmured his words, darkness flared and sparked before fading away, light drunk as cheap wine by the shadows.

And still he could hear the sound of the waves, soothing as they washed over wooden hulls and became foam. The scent of alcohol hung heavy around him. The hint of a devilish smile surrounded by smoke from a pipe.

An annoying presence, and yet one that was comforting, like an irrepressible older sister who would tease him and yet made sure he was safe.

An idle part of Shinji's mind wondered... was this magic? Was this how Grandfather, Sakura and... Uncle Kariya had seen the world? A world of light that glittered and sparkled, an ephemeral existence that was unseen by the dull and crude world?

As his grandfather's words droned on, Shinji's world faded to darkness as weariness overtook him.

And in the darkness, he could heard faint laughter amidst crashing waves, as if daring the world to stay the same.

And the darkness squirmed... and perhaps it did. Perhaps, it was an endless mass of... something.

* * *

><p><strong>Puella Magi Schuetze Aurulent<strong>

_Part 7 : The all encompassing embrace of the sea's depths can be as bad as the burning wrath of fire..._

* * *

><p>Shinji remembered her. She wasn't loud and aggravating like that Tohsaka, nor was she clingy and adoring as his fans were.<p>

She just was.

There would be a smile at his jokes, as bad or poor as they were.

A willingness to work with him.

She had that something that drew him, even when he threatened her and tried to bully her into submitting in the first round. She just shook her head at him. Her servant, that ever talking pink haired Paladin of a Rider, had not been as understanding when her mistress yielded in defeat to spare him from being deleted in combat.

Or perhaps, he did, hadn't he smiled and said something at the end? "For a friend, huh?"

Even at the end, when they were both k... no, deleted by the Moon Cell... she had still been a friend who died to let him go on.

And that, that was what drew him forward to win the grail.

Not for the money, nor the wish of infinite possibilities.

But to prove that her death had not in vain.

And so, and so... he progressed.

Always one step further... always another day, as those around him were winnowed one by one.

Hacking the arena to gift his Rider, Dragon, with a horde of wealth for her to scatter in a storm, to drown their enemies in a hail of fire.

The treachery of the old man's Archer proved no match for the deluge of golden fire of his Rider. Honor could and did cripple one who was used to fighting treacherously with ambushes and assassination techniques.

"Honor and Pride before all else!" That statement of the old man had brought a frustrated look to that archer of his, who bore a certain villainy that even his El Draque could appreciate.

And so, they drowned in fire despite the archer's attempts at assassination and use of poison.

The trickery of the twins provided no defense to his own skills at manipulating the arena and his code casting. And thus, in the end, they too fell. Unable to bring to bear their might against him in the coliseum, the tricks of Caster were futile and useless.

"Ahhh~ you're just like everyone else," were the last words uttered by the digital ghost and her servant.

It was amusing how in his attempts to eliminate him by deceit and abuse of the system only netted that dog of Harway a disqualification and an undignified end as the penalties inflicted upon his assassin by the Moon Cell made it possible for his big sister to bring him low.

"Just like how history bore out, huh... you foreigners always cheat. But it was a fun fight, I'll give you that," The last words uttered by the crimson haired assassin. There was a hint of respect there, from the servant if not the master.

With the dog dead, it was only reasonable for him to start planning on how to deal with that pompous show off with his Saber. He was so confident that he didn't bother to conceal who his servant; Gawain, the knight of the sun. Assuming of course that they both made it past their next challenges.

The Lancer of Tohsaka proved to be... unbearably annoying in how he was disrespectful of him. But then, what else could one expect from the servant of that one? In the end, her words were meaningless. Her attempts to get him to make a wish to change the world was utter nonsense.

This was a game, and wishes were idiocy. He was in it for the prize money and the title. Nothing more, nothing less. Really. And so to her last words, he had responded as his Rider, of his El Draque cackled. "Just drown in your ideals, Tohsaka, and... die."

How could he not, when the last words of hers, to be remembered by him was a desperate plea to overthrow the world as it was. To bring ruination and conflict to all. She truly was a devil woman.

There was never any doubt that with the strength of his servant, that ludicrously overpowered knight, that the Harway representative wouldn't make it to the end.

Overconfidence was the downfall of the Harway scion. He might have been young, but one did not become the premier gamer in Asia by being stupid. And so, he had done his research, readied his trap.

And the Knight of the Sun fell in the darkness of night with only the roaring thunder of the Golden Hind and her escorts to guide him into the underworld.

The memories of those who had fallen before him stained his hands red. He might have been young, but he had walked the fine line between life and death, the razor thin blade of existence and non-existence.

And so, he entered the sum of all knowledge, the heart of the idiot god that knew all and had no sense of self. There had been something more, hadn't there? He vaguely remembered fighting someone else before he ascended into the Eye that gazed upon itself.

[MU]

There had been emptiness and a false existence amidst featureless monuments, hadn't there?

The sound of the waves, soothing as they washed over wooden hulls and became foam surrounded him. The scent of alcohol hung heavy around him. The hint of a devilish smile surrounded by smoke from a pipe.

An annoying presence, and yet one that was comforting, like an irrepressible older sister who would tease him and yet made sure he was safe.

While he was with her, he would always be safe. Even in a sea of data and knowledge.

He had made a wish, hadn't he? To be with her, and for countless new games.


	10. Progress is like a fire

Damp.

Dark.

Those were Shinji's first impressions as he walked down the stone stairs into the basement of the Matou mansion. There was a hint of that sound, that soft slithering sound the further he walked.

The soft squeaky sounds of his shoes against the stairs were absorbed by the stone.

It was when he reached what he thought was the bottom, that he understood. This wasn't a basement that he was in.

For he stood upon a platform that looked down into a catacomb.

A soft green luminous glow from soft glittering lamps that moved in the shifting darkness.

The soft cooling aquamarine hexagons that had filled the world since his re-awakening were still present, here and there... but the shadows here, they consumed them.

Leaving behind that ever shifting darkness.

No, that wasn't right. Shinji's eyes widened as he truly took in what lay before him.

The walls that vanished down into the murky green darkness, the numerous holes that dotted them at regular intervals.

Intellectually, he knew that those holes were for the burial of dead people, where corpses decompose and vanish with the passage of time. Leaving them empty once more for their next occupant.

But where time and air took care of those buried above, here... it was something else.

That smell, which had pervaded the Matou mansion, which he had lived with all his life, it was strong here. He could truly notice it now. That moist earthy scent.

The slithering darkness.

The moving points of light along with the glow of alchemically altered moss.

The darkness lived.

It breathed and ate just as he did.

The countless things that squirmed over the floor, covered in shadows, that were the shadows.

"Do you see them?" the pride in his grandfather's voice could be feel by Shinji as he and Sakura stood at the platform overlooking into the catacomb. "My happiness worms?"

For once, he felt ill. The meal in his stomach threatening to come up.

This.

This was the Matou magic?

For this, Uncle Kariya died?

For this, his father was shot?

For this, Sakura was given to their family?

He looked at her once more. The silence from her telling him more than anything he had been told.

Did he truly desire to become a magus at any cost?

* * *

><p><strong>Puella Magi Schuetze Aurulent<strong>

_Part 8 : Progress is like a fire, it can only grow or die._

* * *

><p>"Shinji, do pay attention. This is something that Sakura already knows," As he struggled to keep his breakfast inside his body, his grandfather continued speaking. Perhaps uncaring of the nausea being displayed here, perhaps uncaring of its cause, simply knowing that what he spoke of was more important. "I call them happiness worms. But that isn't what they really are called. To be more accurate, they are the worms that will bring happiness to any true Matou magus."<p>

"W... what do you mean?" He looked up, breathing in heavily with his mouth in a futile effort to calm his body down. Looking up meant he wasn't looking down as he followed his grandfather ever downwards.

"Boy, the heart of any quest by any magus to reach the origin of everything, the [root] of existence, is that it is a race against time. More accurately, it is a race of endurance" The raspy voice echoed in the hollow beneath the matou mansion. The echoes gave it depthm reinforcing what was said. "Time is the one enemy that can't be defeated, even by magus. It can be stalled by various tricks... but it can not be truly stopped."

"Continuation..." Shinji blinked and the light shifted just so, and it appeared that the old man had no need to breath. For a moment. "Continuation is key against relentless time that erodes away at a magus' mind, body and soul."

"Knowledge must be transmitted because one can only live so long, and the journey to the [root] of everything... that takes longer than the life span of a human, even with life extension techniques," There was a smile and a nod from the patriarch of the Matou family at Shinji in answer to the unspoken question of just how old Zouken truly was.

At the smiling nod from the dark eyed elder magus, there could be little doubt in Shinji's mind, this was a magus who would extend his life at unspeakable cost. That he would extend his life for any and all effort to continue down the path of mysteries. "Books are one way of transmitting knowledge. But inefficient and it runs the risk of being lost in some disaster or stolen by rivals."

Shinji had to nod at that statement, he could see the dangers of storing things by pen and paper, or... digitally, a small part of his mind spoke up. "So... there is something better?"

"Indeed, boy... most magus are content with the current system is use, that of books, scrolls and other storage mediums and their family crests," The approval at Shinji's question could be heard in the indulgent tone of voice. "The magic crests used by most magus are magic circuits imprinted with the techniques and gradual advances over the ages, physically transmitted from one head of the family to the next."

"Tell me boy, what is the inherent drawbacks of the crest system," They stood at the final platform above the squirming mass of worms now. It was obvious to Shinji that the worms had to do something with the path of the topic that his grandfather was guiding him through.

Still, the question had an obvious enough answer if one applied certain basic precepts of computer knowledge. "I... I suppose that if it's from one person to the next, it can get disrupted or corrupted given that it's in a series? And that there can only be one 'heir' or person receiving it?"

The answer, despite its tone of voice, was the right one Shinji determined from the slight smile.

"And, this is my answer," Shinji's grandfather gestured at the mass of squirming things that vaguely resembled worms in the sense that humans resembled dogs. "My happiness worms. Or rather, to be more accurate, my crest worms."

"Every single spell that depends upon the Matou Thaumaturgical Theory reside within the worms. Every single piece of knowledge that the Matou have gathered and gained over time reside within the worms. And as long as a single worm exist, that knowledge, that wisdom, they will never be lost," Shinji could only gapped as he looked at his grandfather as he spoke.

"So... basically, you have a huge mass of crests that distribute everything to whoever has a worm in them?" The logic was sound, Shinji had to admit to himself. It did sound like something that even in the mundane world with computers did, or was that would do?

"That's right, boy, But it isn't a one way road, everything you learn will be given to the worms as well..."

The not quite glimpsed motion from the corner of his eye drew Shinji's attention.

What he saw, however, was not what he expected. It was a sight that had him blushing and turning away to his grandfather's cackles.

His adopted sister was undressing and putting away her clothes in a neat pile as if she was about to go swimming.

"Don't look away, Shinji. This is what is needed to harmonize with the Matou magic... to become one with the Happiness Worms." What? The boy's mind rebelled against what his eyes saw, as his adopted sister gingerly stepped into the swirling mass of things.

Walking as if she was descending further down another flight of stairs into a swimming pool, and just floating in not-water [worms/insects/things].

"Harmonization is only necessary at the beginning. She has yet to finish doing so. But before that... you need this," Shinji turned to his grandfather, the question on his lips dying as he realized that he would need to do this. There was the vial of liquid that glowed a soft lambent green.

"You need happiness worms within you, to connect your magic circuits..."

In his other hand, his grandfather held a syringe of glass and immaculate steel.


End file.
